


swallow heart, sparrow soul

by cinni, Spacedog



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M, Not Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, Not Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie) Compliant, Not Canon Compliant, POV Sam Wilson, Road Trips, Sam Wilson-centric, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2020-06-03 15:52:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19467193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cinni/pseuds/cinni, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spacedog/pseuds/Spacedog
Summary: sam wilson is tired. he feels it in his bones, in his ever-present ache for the people he loves. he feels it in the longing, rooted deep in his heart, for a chance to rest, to heal.and so, two supersoldiers in tow, sam wilson returns to the people and places he knows he can rest his war-weary soul.(or: sam wilson goes home).





	1. Chapter 1

\---

Sam Wilson is _tired._

He’s been on the run for—who knows how long. All the months of running, searching, hiding, fighting, fleeing. Waiting. Wanting. It’s taking its toll on him. He feels it in the soreness of his bones. He feels it in his ache for the people he loves, beyond Rogers and Barnes and all the tremendously-powerful, superhuman beings who make up his everyday. He feels it in the longing, rooted deep in his soul, for a chance to rest, to _heal._

Technically, he can go home. Technically, he still has his job, his apartment, his _life_ back in Washington. It’s within the realm of possibility.

But the chances of it happening, what, with the world falling apart and Steve and Bucky _needing_ him, are slim to none.

Sam Wilson is tired. More tired than he’s ever been before. But even as tired as Sam is, somehow, he cannot find sleep. As he lies in the most-comfortable bed he’d ever been, in a once-cloistered country that feels closer to home than anywhere else Sam has been in a long, long time, Sam Wilson cannot sleep.

After what feels like hours wasted tossing and turning, Sam recognizes that sleep will not come to him. Not then. Not on that night. So instead of fighting, instead of struggling to grab something that he knows will not come, Sam decides to take a walk.

\---

Traversing the Wakandan royal palace has become familiar enterprise for Sam, though just how _dazzling_ it is never gets old. The gleaming walls of the palace make it feel almost dreamlike in itself, especially as its residents sleep. Sam follows a familiar path to a familiar place—a balcony, perched high above the Wakandan capital city. It’s just close enough to see the twinkling lights of the world below him, but high enough so that sometimes, when the sky is clear, Sam feels like he could reach up and touch the stars. He sits there in that familiar spot, looking up at that almost impossibly-clear star-dotted sky, trying to ground himself. Trying to clear his head, at least for the next few hours. At least long enough for him to rest. And he’s almost calm—or something close to it—when he hears the soft fall of footsteps behind him. 

“I see that sleep is evading both of us tonight,” a familiar voice says, suddenly, and Sam turns, not alarmed, but alert. In the balcony doorway stands T’challa—King of Wakanda, the Black Panther, and now, to Sam, a personal friend.

Sam nods, patting the spot next to him, as if to invite T’challa over. As if he weren’t the king, as if he didn’t have free reign over the palace and all its surroundings.

“How many nights has this been?” T’challa asks, quietly, his presence a comforting weight by Sam’s side.

Sam shakes his head. “I can’t remember the last time I had a full night’s sleep. It must have been—it must’ve been years.”

T’challa examines him, closely, moonlight and city-light illuminating his regal features. His gaze is intense, but not overwhelming, even as it appears to peer down into the depths of Sam’s soul. They’re practically the same age, Sam and T’challa, but experience and upbringing and that metaphysical connection to the generations and generations of kings before him have given him an understanding of the world that is fully outside—fully beyond—Sam’s own.

“When was the last time you slept in your own bed, then?” he asks Sam, after a while. Sam can see the cogs turning in his head, a curiosity evident in the way that T’challa cocks his head, if just ever-slightly, to one side. “When was the last time you’ve returned home?”

The question doesn’t blindside Sam, but it does force him to think, to pull back the fog of fleeing and fighting, running and resisting, and think back: _when was the last time he’s come, stayed, been home?_

When the answer comes to Sam, it doesn’t so much materialize as it _drops._

“I haven’t been home since—well. Since before Steve, I guess,” Sam says, and he knows his voice must be quiet, just from the fact that _he_ can barely hear himself. T’challa, however, seems to have no trouble hearing him. 

“So. Quite a while now,” T’challa says, his tone level, kind. “You must be—what is the word in English? Homesick?”

_Homesick. Sick. Illness messes with your sleep. You need to get to bed, Samuel, his mother says, her hand cool against his sweat-sticky forehead._

“I—yeah,” Sam starts, exhausted. Emotional. Too worn-out to really, seriously, think about going home, even at a king’s suggestion. “I think I _am_ homesick.” 

T’challa hums. “Master Sergeant Wilson. Far be it for me to give you advice as a king, so let me tell you this as a friend: if all these international misadventures we have all been involved in have taught me anything, it is that you can _always_ return home. Whatever you may be carrying with you. Wherever that home may be.”

The thought of _going home_ was, of course, nothing new to Sam. He’d thought of going home every day, every minute, since the moment he knew he couldn’t turn back. But he felt he had a duty, a purpose, that he agreed to, when he let Steve and Natasha into his home. And though he was retired, technically, that obligation echoed in his mind, unyielding, like the call to serve—and _has been_ echoing, loud and impossible-to-ignore, in this world full of superspies and secret cities.

But _home—_ just the thought of returning back to it makes the noise of obligation quiet down in Sam’s mind, if only for a little while.

Sam must have been quiet for a long, long time, because eventually, T’challa stands, making his way back to the palace. 

“I think I am ready to retire for the night,” T’challa says. “I hope you can, as well. And think about going home. If you can.” 

“Yeah. Yeah, I will,” Sam says, feeling tired, but, this time, in the good way. “Thanks.”

\---

The decision to take a break from the superhero business—at least, for a while—does not come easily for Sam. It’s a week after his dead-of-night conversation with T’challa, and when he calls Steve and Bucky to a meeting, he _still_ isn’t quite sure what he’s going to say to them. Anxiety twists Sam’s stomach up into uncomfortable knots, and though Steve and Bucky have become as close to him as family, he can’t quite muster up the courage to let down _Captain America._

But he tries to. He _has to._ For his own sake.

“I—” Sam starts. It feels like giving up, like deserting, almost. And he almost swallows it up. He almost retreats, almost calls off the meeting there, but he swallows, pushing through. “I need a break.”

Steve nods, his expression unfathomably understanding. Maybe the writing was on the wall. Maybe it was clear, even to them, that Sam was struggling to keep up with their supersoldier staminas.

“Whatever you need, I’ve got you,” Steve says. Barnes nods, in turn. Silent though he is, Barnes’ eyes are understanding, soft. He, too, perhaps more than anyone, recognizes the importance of stopping to rest. _We’ve got you_ is unspoken, but remains said, all the same.

“I—I don’t know if I want to quit just yet, I just—I need a break,” Sam says, his response a sigh. “I—I’m tired. And I think it’ll do me good, if I, you know. If I go home.”

“Of course,” Steve says, with a nod. He doesn’t look a single bit upset. Sam doesn’t know if he would respond the same way. Sam doesn’t know if he _could_ respond the same way, even now. “Whatever you need.”

“Hell,” Bucky says, “If we could go home—I’m sure we would, too.”

And that’s when it hits Sam: supersoldiers though they might be, Steve and Bucky, both a hundred years old and deep in the pits of fighting for the past seventy, are tired, too.

So, when he makes his next offer, it is not thought through, not really. It comes on instinct, not from one fugitive to another, and not even from one soldier to another. But from one friend, one tired soul, to two.

“Come with me, then,” Sam says, less a command than a suggestion—less a suggestion than a _hope._ “It’ll—it’ll give you a chance to feel like you’ve got a home, too.” 

Steve looks like he’s thinking over the suggestion carefully, when he turns to Barnes, who shrugs, slightly, and nods, even more decidedly. Sam didn’t want to get his hopes up, not when the two of them had been running so long, so when Bucky nods, it feels like a little blessing, all in itself.

“We’d like that,” Steve says. “I think we’d like that a lot.”

And, though Sam intended to leave Wakanda alone, he realizes—he couldn’t imagine leaving without Steve and Bucky; he couldn’t imagine, even after all this time without Riley, going home alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this took a lot of starts and fits, but it's here!! here's [cinni](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cinni) and my collab for the captain america reverse big bang!! the art is fantastic, and i'm going to embed it in the third chapter - for now, here's the amazing header that gives a wonderful hint towards the full art.
> 
> thank you to [em](https://archiveofourown.org/users/goodmanperfectsoldier) for giving this a look-over, for cinni to the eternal patience, kindness, and friendship while my chaotic life upended my schedule for this project, and to all the wonderful mods for the big bang who took my panicked emails in stride and were gracious enough to offer extensions for this project. 
> 
> this fic is fully non-canon-compliant, and given that it's a big sam wilson character study, i combined a couple elements from the MCU with vague elements from the marvel comics (specifically, sam's family, but not the weird "snap" wilson storyline that defines his family often). this is also my first time really diving deep into sam as a character, so i'm very anxious and excited to share this with everyone!!
> 
> next up: from wakanda, westward.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> take me home (to the place i belong)

Suburban Virginia is not Wakanda. Suburban Virginia is nothing close.

But standing at that familiar green door, Steve and Bucky flanking him, Sam still feels a formality, a seriousness, an anxiety, akin to standing in front of the royal throne for the first time. As he rings the doorbell a second time, Sam, having run from home so long, almost reconsiders his decision to return.

All that uncertainty—all that angst—completely melts away the _minute_ Sam sees Darlene Wilson, his own mother, standing at the open doorway.

“Oh!” exclaims Darlene, sounding breathless. “Samuel!”

“Hi, Mom,” Sam says, and _God,_ does being able to say that make Sam’s heart clench with a bittersweet joy, a feeling of _belonging_ that he didn’t realize had become unfamiliar to him until that moment.

“I—Samuel—” Mom starts, and her eyes dart from Sam, to Steve, to Bucky, and back again, looking just as overwhelmed as Sam feels. “You’re not—you’re not in _trouble,_ are you?”

“No, Mom. We’re not in trouble. Not any more than usual,” Sam says, and it’s a joke, really. But from the way that she furrows her eyebrows, from the way that she looks at him—with that same stormy, sad expression that had become so much more familiar after Riley passed—Sam knows that his mother isn’t completely convinced. She _knows,_ deep down. She always has, and always will, after all.

Darlene Wilson pulls herself back together soon enough, though, and just smiles at the three of them, clapping her hands together and smiling that big, bright smile that Sam never thought he’d get a chance to see again. “Come inside. You must’ve traveled a long way.”

Sam laughs, shaking his head, if only slightly. “Yeah. Yeah, we have.”

Mom doesn’t waste any time, putting on a kettle and grabbing some mugs out of the very same cabinet they've always been in. Some of them are older than Sam is. His heart swells as he watches her open the kitchen window to trim a few sprigs of fresh mint, like she had done his entire childhood. 

“Paul! Come inside!” Mom calls out into the backyard, once she’s gotten a small bundle of mint leaves. “Samuel’s come home!”

“Samuel?” calls out a familiar masculine voice—his old man, his dad, Reverend Paul Wilson. He's retried, not that anyone would be able to tell. “He’s come home?”

“Yes!” Darlene exclaims, excitedly, “Come inside!”

Paul Wilson quickly enters through the porch door, not even stopping to take off his gardening gloves. Trotting in after him is a cream-colored, floppy-eared Shih-Tzu mix with a bright red collar and fur almost covering its eyes. 

"Samuel," Dad says, his eyes brightening as soon as he sees his son. The dog barks excitedly, wagging his tail with such fervor that his entire lower body shakes with it.

“Hey, dad,” Sam says, squeezing his dad in a one-armed hug. Dad squeezes Sam’s shoulders, looking up at his son in a moment of tenderness that Sam hadn’t prepared for or even anticipated, when he’d made the decision to finally, finally go home. The elder Wilsons’s dog, even, seems to have missed Sam just as much as his parents had, jumping on him and whining anxiously, as if begging to say hello, too.

“Teddy,” Sam says, in a baby-voice that his sister would tease him for. He crouches, scratching Teddy behind the ears vigorously. “Did you miss me? Huh?”

As if in response, Teddy rolls over, exposing his soft, fluffy belly. Sam rubs it vigorously, earning a little kick of Teddy’s back paws. It’s a moment of euphoria, a simple, happy moment, and for a moment, Sam’s entire world is just this: being home, with his parents, and playing with his parents’ dog.

Of course, coming home from abroad didn’t usually involve bringing home two very handsome supersoldiers who, for their most part, haven’t yet said a word. 

“Well, Samuel, were you going to introduce us to your little friends?” Mom asks, raising her eyebrows at the two very _not little_ men, shyly watching in the hallway. Sam blushes. He’d been so wrapped up in coming home, in seeing Mom and Dad and Teddy again, that he’d almost entirely forgotten that he’d brought people with him, too.

“Sorry, uh,” Sam says, standing up again. Teddy lies on his back for a moment, as if waiting for Sam to come back, before righting himself and trotting over to sit at Dad’s heels. Steve looks sheepish, from his spot just outside the kitchen, and Bucky looks fond, and, moreso than usual, a little bit sad. “Mom, this is Steve and Bucky. They’re—uh. My coworkers, I guess.”

“Missus Wilson,” Steve says, holding his hand out to shake. Mom takes it, grasping Steve’s firmly, unyieldingly, but warmly. He turns to Dad—still wearing his gardening gloves—and shakes his hand, with just as much friendship as he had with Mom. “Reverend Wilson.”

“Pleasure to meet you both, sir, ma’am,” Bucky says, nodding at Sam’s parents in a diminutive way that Sam would have never expected from _The Winter Soldier_. It was more than polite, and perhaps a little more than just a little mannerly. It was a glimpse—if brief, if subtle—of the shy, respectful, well-raised young boy who charmed his way into Sarah Rogers’ life some ninety-odd years ago. And it makes Sam feel soft for Bucky, in a strange, surprising way.

“Good to finally meet you boys in-person,” Mom says, because of course, she already knows who Steve and Bucky are. If she didn’t already know them from their presence in textbooks and Oscar-winning documentaries and monuments and national memory, she would have known them from the D.C. Incident, or the Sokovia Incident, or the Berlin Incident, or whatever other happenings Sam has forgotten about since he’s stopped keeping track.

“Likewise,” Bucky says, with a grin. It’s movie-star bright, and genuine. Sam is stunned at it, if only briefly, as that feeling of shock is replaced, just as quickly, with a feeling of warmth he’s not entirely unfamiliar with.

“Well,” Mom says, looking up at Steve and Bucky in a way that makes that warmth in Sam’s heart—familiar and strange, all at the same time—swell. “Let me put on some more tea, then. Make yourselves at home.”

“Thank you,” Steve says, and from the way Steve looks at his mother, Sam can tell that he, too, is feeling something warm and soft and _happy,_ too. 

\---

The Wilson family—and Steve and Bucky—settle into the living room, sipping chamomile tea with fresh mint from mismatched mugs and snacking on sugar-free oatmeal cookies, catching up and falling into a familiar rhythm. Sam shares with his parents the wonder that was Wakanda, to the best of his ability; it would be impossible to _truly_ share the energy of that country, a place seemingly a hundred years in the future. But he tries. Sam goes on, perhaps a little bit too long, about his time overseas, but his parents smile at him, looking proud. Looking relieved. 

“So,” he says, squeezed—literally—between Steve and Bucky on the loveseat. It wasn’t built for three grown men. Somehow, Sam doesn’t mind. “How’re things?”

“Oh, _you know_ ,” Mom says, in that way that she does. “Well, your brother got promoted a while ago, so he's busier than he's been, but he's doing well. Sarah and Toby are trying for another kid, and oh! Jody won first place at the science fair."

"Wow," Sam says, both energized by his siblings' lives, and sad that he's missed all the good news. One of the downsides of being constantly moving: the world is constantly moving around you, too.

Mom just hums, nodding a little as she sips her tea. "You _really_ need to get back on the Facebook, Samuel, I’m telling you.”

Sam doesn’t roll his eyes, because he was raised better to roll his eyes at his mother. But the suggestion _does_ make him shake his head and smile, in the kind way that adult children do. “Yeah, alright, Mom. Maybe.”

Darlene Wilson, who knows her son better than anyone, better than he knows himself, sometimes, levels him a look. Sam just smiles at her, sipping his tea, in turn. Steve, on his left— _just like old times. Just like always_ —pats him on the knee, in a friendly, close gesture that doesn't make Sam's heart flutter, but makes him feel some sort of way, regardless. 

“What about you, dad?" Sam says suddenly, trying not to focus _too much_ on that little gesture, not while he's in front of his parents. "How’re things?”

"Can't complain," Dad replies, leaning back a little in his recliner. "Teddy and I get to go on a long walk every morning, and I get to be in the garden as long as I like. Your mother and I are thinking of traveling more."

"That's right," Mom adds. "We're thinking of going to visit Sarah and Jody, and then maybe taking Jody up to the Bay Area to meet your aunts and uncles during his summer break."

“Man,” Sam says, with a sigh. How wonderful it must be, having the ability to travel leisurely, being able to _breathe_. How wonderful it must be, leaving home and knowing there's a home for you to return to. “Retirement sounds like it’s treating you both real well. Real well. Wish _I_ could be retired.”

Maybe Sam meant it as a joke. Maybe he didn't. After all, he _was_ thinking of retiring. Whatever it may have been, Sam's parents pick up on his comments about retirement. His mother puts her mug down, and there's a seriousness to his father's look. A silence falls, heavy with meaning, heavy with a need for a follow-up.

“Are you thinking of retiring, Sam?” Dad asks, his tone not unlike the way he said, _you know, you can tell me anything_ when Sam was deep in the throes of his first boy crush, all those years ago.

Sam lets out a heavy sigh. He glances over at Bucky, who makes an encouraging motion towards him: _Go on._ Steve's hand, a warm, familiar, steadying weight, is still on his knee. 

“Well,” Sam starts, looking at the remaining tea in his mug. As if it would carry the answers for him. “From the superhero business, maybe.”

Dad nods. “Mm.”

“I just—” Sam starts. “I miss my groups. I miss my clients. I think I’m more helpful there than I am fighting aliens and evil superspies. And more than anything, I—I miss home. I miss you and Mom. I miss my own bed, and my own apartment, and hell, even my own office. I miss—I dunno. I miss my old life.”

A silence falls over the living room, heavier than before. Sam doesn’t want to look at his parents, nor does he want to look at Steve or Bucky, so he looks at Teddy, who looks up at him with big, gentle brown eyes. Sam could practically cry. He nearly does, when Teddy trots over, yawning his big, stinky yawn and curling up next to Sam’s feet.

Finally, as if an eternity later, Dad speaks. “Well, it sounds like you got the whole thing figured out, son.”

“Well—” Sam starts. “The thing is—I don’t know if it’s the right thing to do. I don’t know if it’s even what I really _want_ to do. That’s—that’s why I came home. Because the King of Wakanda told me that I should go home. But—from there? I don’t know.”

Another silence falls. Another awkward moment with many paths, and very few answers. Sam lets out a heavy sigh. Teddy snorts, in the way that Shih Tzus do, breaking the tension, if only slightly.

“You know what helped me,” Bucky starts, “Was moving around. Seeing the places and people that jogged my memory. Made me realize—who I was. What I wanted. What I stand for.”

“Are you—are you suggesting a road trip?” Sam asks, and he can’t help but be bemused.

Bucky shrugs a lopsided shrug. Sam looks over to his parents, those people who seemingly _always_ had the answers, growing up, but somehow, they don’t look like they have an answer, either.

“I—I mean. It’ll let me have a chance to catch up with Sarah and Gideon,” Sam admits, “I mean. It’s probably better than _getting back on Facebook._ ”

He smiles at his mom, and she shakes her head, but she’s smiling, too. “I’d like it if you could catch up with your brother and sister however it is that you can, Samuel. I _do_ think they can help you through this decision. But at the end of the day, you do know the decision will have to be your own.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I know,” Sam says.

He sighs. The decision to go was up to him. It was a strange new shift, after having where he was going, what he would be doing, _who he would be,_ completely out of his control for. Who knows how long, now. Ever since he left his old life behind with Steve and Natasha, all that time ago. It would be nice, to return back to that old life of his. It would be nice, to go to the people he loves, in all the places that _they_ love; that _they've_ made homes within.

Sam sighs. The decision comes to him quickly, as if it didn't cause him so much strife and anxiety before. “Well—what the hell. Traveling for the sake of traveling, seeing Gideon and Sarah—I think it’ll be good for me.”

“Yeah?” Steve asks, more a confirmation, more a form of encouragement, than anything. 

“Yeah,” Sam says with a nod, and in that moment, he _does_ feel sure. 

"Good," Bucky says, "That's good."

“But—if it’s okay with you both,” Sam says, addressing his parents, “I’d like to stay here for a few days, if I can.”

“Samuel,” Mom says, her voice soft, “You know, you’re always welcome home. For however long you want.”

And _that._ That’s what Sam needs to hear, more than anything. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> part of my excitement about this project is exactly in how much it deals with sam's family. i really love all of the lovely work that's done that gives steve and bucky robust family structures, and i hope that this work helps to do that for sam. 
> 
> i don't have may notes for this chapter, but darlene and paul wilson’s house is based off my godparents’ old house right outside of D.C. sometimes i think about sitting out on their porch on a warm—not hot—summer day, as the little creek running through the back end of it teems with life. when i visited D.C., i was hit with the scent-memory of that place. 
> 
> teddy is based off my parents' dogs. [here is a picture of a teddy bear shih tzu](https://www.101dogbreeds.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/10/Shichon-Full-Grown.jpg) that may or may not be teddy. he loves sam very, very much. 
> 
> (also yes i very much know west virginia and virginia are two different places, but as a kid who grew up in the D.C. area for a while and also grew up in a swamp city in the upland south, [john denver's "take me home, country roads"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1vrEljMfXYo) makes me feel fond nostalgia for that place, let me live).
> 
> next up: from the heartland to the coast.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> from the mountains, to the prairies, to the oceans, home.

They stay with the elder Wilsons for three days.

Of course, Mom wants them to stay longer. Hell, _Sam_ wishes he could stay longer. Staying with his parents reminds him of a life he lived a long, long time ago, a life where he would take the twenty-minute drive to his parents’ house into the Virginia suburbs every weekend; a life where he and Riley had plans to move to those very same Virginia suburbs sometime, once upon a time.

Sam misses that life. And when he hugs his mother, tight enough to feel her heartbeat against his, Sam realizes just how _natural_ it would be to go back to that life—or, at the very least, a life very much like it. He realizes, not for the first time, that the life he’d been living—a life of duty, a life he’d never asked for, a life he thought he’d retired from—wasn’t his only option in life. Not at all.

“You take care, okay, Samuel?” Mom asks, as if he’s seventeen years old again, and leaving home for the first time. It feels like that, from the seriousness of her tone, to the look on Dad’s face, to the weightiness of the journey in front of Sam.

“I will, Mom. I promise,” Sam says, trying—and failing—at putting on a brave face, just like he had, all those years ago. She smiles at him, and it’s bittersweet, and Sam, for a minute, wishes he didn’t have to go.

“You’ll call us every night, okay?” Dad says, clapping his hand on Sam’s shoulder, and pulling him into a tight hug. “Don’t leave your mother and I worried.”

“Yeah,” Sam says, a promise he fully-intends to keep. “Yeah, I will.”

“And you two,” Mom says, nodding at Steve and Bucky with the loving intensity that made her Sam’s hero, “You take care of him, alright?”

“We will,” Steve says, nodding. “We will.”

“Promise,” Bucky adds, looking Mom in the eye very, very seriously.

“Okay,” Mom says, though her tone says, _You’d better._

“We’re holding you two to that,” Dad says, Teddy at his side. Sam’s mother looks at Steve and Bucky, her expression unreadable, and Sam, for a moment, wants to call the whole travel thing off. But he can’t. He knows that he needs to see his brother and his sister and the rest of his family. He knows he needs to see them. He knows seeing them will help him know what to do with his life.

Mom pulls Steve into a hug, before doing the same with Bucky, her slender frame looking even smaller with her arms wrapped around their broad shoulders. They say quiet goodbyes, shake hands with Dad, and load into their rental car—more roomy, thank God, than the Beetle they rented back in Berlin. 

With two supersoldiers ready to go, Sam and his parents stand there, on the elder Wilsons’s porch, nobody, really, wanting to move. Neither party wants to unsettle the rhythm of the last few days, neither wanting Sam’s homecoming to end. But they have a journey to embark on, a road trip to figure out the rest of Sam’s life—or, at the very least, the next chapter in it. Eventually, Sam just pulls his parents into a tight hug, one last, quiet goodbye-for-now and, before he knows it, they drive off, far from the cozy Virginia home that he grew up in. 

And as the familiar sights of the Virginia suburbs become more scattered, replaced by endless lengths of forests and cragged mountain faces, for the first time in a long time, Sam feels like he has a path to follow, or at least, something close. 

\---

Chicago is a city that Sam only knows through visits, but when he arrives at his brother’s doorstep in the early afternoon, it feels far more like home than any hostel or motel or safe house that he’s stayed at in his time with Steve and Bucky. Even in this unfamiliar city, Sam feels more relaxed, his body less tense, than he’d felt in a long, long time. He’s missed this feeling. 

“Hey. Missed you, Gid,” Sam says, as his brother pulls him into a tight hug. Gideon Wilson, five years older than Sam—and, no lie, Sam’s hero—pulls back, nodding.

“I missed _you,_ Sammie,” Gideon says, looking his brother over. “Where’ve you been? Or is that _classified?_ ” 

Gideon shoots a glance over at Steve and Bucky, and Sam rolls his eyes. As true as it might be, he doesn’t want to think about that. Not now. For the next few days, in Virginia and Chicago and San Diego and every rest stop and gas station between, Sam isn’t someone supersoldier-adjacent, and he absolutely isn’t anyone involved in anything _classified_.

For the next few days, Sam is just Sam Wilson, son of Darlene and Paul Wilson, younger brother of Gideon and Sarah Wilson, uncle of Jody Wilson.

And his brother, seemingly, after a glance at Sam’s face, gets it.

“Alright, alright,” says Gideon generously, clapping Sam on the back, once more. “Well, come on. Let’s get you settled. How do you three feel about Chinese? There’s this hand-pulled noodle place that I’ve _gotta_ take you to.” 

“That sounds _amazing_ right now,” Sam says. Driving for hours and hours on end, after all, meant nothing but fast food and processed, sugary snacks. Hand-pulled noodles, heavy as they may be, at the very least, were made with _care._

“I could go for some noodles,” Steve says, rubbing his chin absentmindedly. “And a shower.”

Bucky hums. “Yeah. My hair is starting to feel oily.”

“You look like a grease-dipped poodle,” Sam jokes. Gideon makes a face—equal parts shocked and delighted at Sam’s _sick_ burn—and Barnes rolls his eyes.

“Not all of us can spend ten hours in a car and come out looking like a _person,_ Wilson,” Barnes says, deadpan. There’s warmth in it, and Sam knows it. Maybe it wasn’t visible to Gideon, but Sam, who’d gotten much closer to Barnes—and Steve—in the past few years, could spot it from a mile away.

“That sounds like a personal problem,” Sam says. He grabs his bag, and nudges his brother along. “A personal problem that you’ve gotta fix _after_ I get me my noodles.”

“Sure, sure,” Barnes says, but when Sam catches a glance at him, he’s smiling.

\---

The hand-pulled noodle place is everything that Sam needs after spending hours on the road, driving through plain fields and strip malls and so much sad gray concrete and asphalt. It’s bright and lively inside, with warm reds and yellows and greens lifting his mood, and a big, warm plate of noodles filling his stomach. 

“So,” Gideon says, eventually, leaning back in his chair. He looks full and content, like he’s a minute away from rubbing his belly. Just like their dad does, after a big meal. “What’re you three in town for?”

Sam takes a sip of his jasmine tea before he responds. “Dad didn’t tell you?”

Gideon shakes his head. “He just said you were coming over.”

Steve and Bucky, still ravenous, apparently, pause from their chewing to exchange glances with Sam. Not nervous glances—there wasn’t, after all, anything to be nervous about—but knowing glances, all the same.

“Well,” Sam starts. His empty plate of noodles is, all of a sudden, very interesting. Sam doesn’t know what it is about telling his brother that he’s considering retirement that makes him nervous. He just knows it _does._ “I, uh—”

“You’re not in _trouble,_ are you, Sammie?” Gideon asks, his thick brows furrowed together. It’s almost identical to Mom’s concern, back in Virginia. Back when he arrived, unannounced, at his mother’s door. Combined with Gideon’s shaved head, it makes him seem perhaps more concerned than he actually is. That, itself, makes Sam anxious, though he knows he has no good reason to be.

“I’m not, I’m not,” Sam answers, “I’m actually. Uh. I’m thinking of retiring. Retiring the whole—adventuring. Thing.”

Gideon—Sam’s big brother, the man he always looked up to, the man who just got a _promotion_ —eases. Not that the slump of his brother’s shoulders makes it any easier for Sam. “Oh.”

“It’s a big decision. A _real_ big decision. So—part of why we came here. We’re emotional support,” Steve says, and whether it’s to defend Sam to Gideon or make sense of Gideon’s reaction to Sam is unclear.

“Well, I mean,” Gideon starts, “I don’t blame you if you want to retire. I imagine it can’t be easy.”

“It’s not,” Bucky says, through a mouth full of noodles, and _God,_ does the weight of seventy years weigh heavy on his shoulders. It’s not always visible, but it’s there, and in that moment, it’s all Sam can see. His heart aches for Bucky, in the same way Sam’s heart aches for what he once had. _What the three of them all could have._

“Plus,” Sam adds, “I miss my clients. I miss running group. I miss being able to help people through their problems and watching them grow. You don’t—you don’t get to help in that kind of way when you’re punching Nazis. As important as that is, I mean.”

Steve shrugs, light and easy. “Hey, no offense taken.”

“Well,” Gideon says, “It sounds like you’re pretty sure of things. I don’t know how I can help you, Sammie, but I think—I mean, and this is just my opinion—if you’ve come all the way over here from wherever it is you were, and if you’re gonna go all the way to San Diego from here, I think that means something, you know? I think you know what you want. But there’s something big stopping you.”

Sam shrugs. Gideon watches him, carefully, the same way he would try to make sense of Sam’s moody teenage years. And just like during those moody teenage years, just like in those brief years where Sam—good as he was—wasn’t willing to open up, Sam stays silent, staring at his chipped Chinese restaurant teacup.

Of course, Gideon has been there before. Gideon, older and wiser than Sam thinks he could—would—ever be, knows exactly what kind of questions to ask to get Sam to answer. “What’s holding you back? What are you attached to, Sammie?”

“I guess—I guess I’d miss it,” Sam says, looking at Bucky and Steve, and not saying, not in that moment, what he really meant. Not saying, to Steve and Bucky, _I’d miss you two._

\---

Gideon’s apartment, nice as it is, wasn’t made for four. As the night goes on, as the Wilson boys and the two emotional support supersoldiers tire, it becomes clear that Steve, Bucky, and Sam are all going to need to share the one bed. 

It’s not like they’re not used to sharing tight spaces like this. Of course, they’ve had to share motel beds, cots, even sleeping bags, that one time.

But something about this is different. Something about _Sam_ is different. As he looks at Bucky sleeping across from him—smelling like soap and toothpaste; lying close enough to touch, close enough to kiss—all Sam can think of is tucking those stray strands back behind Bucky’s ears. All he can think about is waking up to this _forever._

And yet. All he can think about, too, is Steve, sleeping behind him. Steve, with those big, delicate hands and enough bravery for an army. Steve, who Sam would—did—uproot his life for.

For the first time in his life, Sam is in love with not one man, but two. And the realization of it—it hits him like a revelation. Like truth. Like T’challa’s words of _going home,_ all over again. 

“Hey,” Steve says, seeming to sense something close to Sam’s moment of revelation. “You alright?”

Sam doesn’t have many answers. For the past few months, he’s been filled with confusion, filled with uncertainty. But there’s one thing he knows for certain, one thing that he can tell Steve, in all the intimacy of that shared bed:

“Yeah,” he says, softly. “It’s great.”

\---

They don’t stay in Chicago long. They _can’t_ stay in Chicago long, as much as both Sam and Gideon would like. After all, not everyone could take someone in and drop everything to accommodate them on such short notice. Not everyone could rearrange their lives for a paramilitary vigilante and a supersoldier or two. Not everyone could do what Sam did, all that time ago.

Not that Sam could blame his brother, what, with his promotion and his new responsibilities, and everything. Sam wouldn’t blame _anyone_ for keeping his and the supersoldiers’ visit short _._ There were a lot of things that came out of that decision to let Steve and Nat into his home that he would never take back, but all the same, there were a lot of things that came out of that decision that Sam would never wish on anyone. Especially not his brother. 

As they pack up their rental car—loaded with as much fresh fruit and vegetables as would be reasonable for a road trip like this—Gideon lends a helpful hand, although Sam has a feeling, deep down, he just wants to make sure that Sam knows he’s _cared for._ That, even though he’s never lived in Chicago, even though it’s a city foreign to him, Sam has a home there.

And, more than anything, that moves Sam forward. 

“I, uh. I know you’re gonna hate this, too, but—” Gideon says, once they’ve got the rental all packed up. He shifts, pulling out a small, slim box from what seems like a lifetime ago. It’s a disposable camera, with enough film to take twenty-five shots. “Here. I got this for you when you were in the produce department. I know it’s corny, but I think—I dunno, I think it’ll be nice, to take physical pictures, put ‘em in your office, or keep ‘em with you, if you go back in the field. Plus, it’s nice to get ‘em developed. Lets you look back on this trip. You know.” 

“Gideon, I—thank you,” Sam starts, feeling so loved, his heart so _full,_ that he has to will his hands from shaking as he takes the camera. “Seriously. Thank you.”

Gideon, too, looks like he’s trying not to be overly emotional. But Sam recognizes the look on his brother’s face as the same one he had when Sam left for college, the Same one he had when Sam graduated, the same one he had when Sam and Riley got married. “Well, take a picture with me, then, come on. Gotta make sure it works, right?”

“Yeah, okay, okay,” Sam says, and he pulls the camera out of the box, and, through muscle memory alone, he prepares the camera, winding the dial back until it stops. He and Gideon squeeze close, and Sam turns the lens towards them, grinning widely as he presses the shutter button, pulling away when he hears that telltale _click._

“Think we got a good shot?” Gideon asks, earnestly.

“Yeah. Yeah, I think we did,” Sam says, smiling. 

“Good,” is all Gideon can say in reply. He pulls his brother into another hug, another tight, loving hug, and when they break it, Sam has to look away, for a moment, to put himself back together. _Chin up,_ his brother would always say, when he was much younger, and his brother—all of five years older than him—seemed like the smartest, coolest, most-together kid in the world. Hell. Sam _still_ thinks that of Gideon. He’s pretty sure he’ll _always_ think that of his older brother. “You take care now, okay, Sammie?”

“Yeah. Yeah. I will. You take care too, alright?” Sam asks, not that his brother would have any trouble doing that. 

“Always, Sammie. Always.” 

Sitting in the front passenger’s seat, Steve next to him, Sam watches his brother watching them from the rearview mirror, ever-protective, even as adults; even now. Something about watching his brother’s form in the mirror, growing ever-smaller as he fades into the fuzz of the city, hits Sam. Before he knows it, his eyes are blurry with tears, and when he blinks, it leaves rivulets of tears trailing down his face. 

“Hey,” Steve says, suddenly, his voice gentle and kind. He does not stop driving, not yet, but his free hand finds itself in Sam’s, somehow. It’s a surprise, but not unwelcome. Sam squeezes it, tightly. Like a lifeline. “You’re gonna be okay. You’ll be okay.”

The cool metal of Barnes’ hand finds itself, too, on Sam’s arm, rubbing gentle circles on his bicep, echoing what Steve is saying, without words.

It’s overwhelming. It’s unexpected.

And yet—it’s everything Sam could ever want. And in that moment, it’s the only thing he can say he needs. 

\---

They continue their drive westward, stopping only when they have to; when their bodies—even two supersoldier bodies— _force_ them to. They drive on, grassy plains transforming into rocky desert and, soon, seagrass-strewn shores. Sam makes a record of it, all the way, taking pictures of the shifting terrain, roadside oddities, and, more than either of those things, Steve and Bucky, in all their beauty and oddity and normalcy.

\--- 

Before they know it, they’re parked in the driveway of Sarah Wilson’s cozy San Diego home, the ocean air lifting their spirits, even as far inland as they might be. 

“Uncle Sam!” is what Sam hears, before his sister’s front door is even open. Barnes makes a soft, adoring little noise that Sam, frankly, did _not_ think was capable of coming out of him, what, given that he’s two-hundred-sixty pounds of murder and muscle. Before Sam can say anything, though, the door swings open, and he’s full body-tackled by a sixty-pound ball of curls and excitement.

“Jody!” Sam cheers, hugging his nephew as tightly as he possibly can. “How’s my favorite nephew doing?”

“Uncle Sam, I’m your _only_ nephew!” Jody laughs, looking up at Sam with big, brown, mirthful eyes.

“Are you?” Sam teases. “Are you sure?”

“Yes!”

“Who’s out there, Jody?” calls out a familiar feminine voice, “Tell them we don’t want anything they’re selling!”

Jody giggles, and it makes Sam’s soul soar. “It’s Uncle Sam, Mama!”

“Uncle Sam?” Sarah asks, in mock surprise, making her way to the door. “Well. That _is_ your uncle, isn’t it?” 

“Brought friends, too,” Sam says, nodding to Steve and Bucky.

“Hi,” Steve says, nodding at Sarah, then waving at Jody. Bucky, on the other hand, crouches down, meeting Jody eye-to-eye.

“Hi. I’m Bucky. Nice to meet you,” he asks, putting out his hand—the left hand—to shake. Jody, eyes wide with surprise and excitement, takes Bucky’s hand and shakes it, gently. Not as if he’s afraid, but as if he’s astounded. Bucky smiles at him, warm and full of a familiar recognition that makes Sam’s heart _melt._

Sarah smiles at this, too, and shoots Sam a knowing glance. “Hey, Jody, why don’t you show Bucky and Steve your science project?”

Jody grins ear-to-ear, and grabs Bucky’s hand like Bucky is a family member, and not just someone he’d just met. “Come on! We made robots!”

“Robots!” Bucky laughs, following Sam’s nephew, “Wow!”

Steve, equally-charmed, grins, following at their heels. With that, Sarah smiles at her brother, and motions for him to join her inside, which, after all that travelling, he can only oblige. 

“So. How’ve you been?” Sarah asks, leading Sam into her kitchen. It’s beautiful, with shiny granite countertops and a skylight that makes the whole living room feel warm. From the kitchen, Sam can see a well-tended backyard and, like in his parents’ backyard, a garden. Having a garden would be nice, Sam thinks, as he adores the roses Sarah has planted along the perimeter of her backyard.

“Oh, you know. Busy,” Sam says, sliding into one of the bar stools at the kitchen island. He’s still looking at the roses. He wonders, for a moment, if Steve and Bucky would help him plant rose bushes, when he has a backyard again. 

“Mm,” Sarah says, preparing two mugs of tea. Her electric kettle was, seemingly, already at the ready, so she just pours hot water into the mugs, already stocked with teabags. That _was_ his older sister. Always prepared. “That’s an understatement. How was the drive?”

Sam shrugs. “It’s a drive. With the stamina of those two, though, we managed to cut down the travel time by—well. A lot.”

Sarah hums, and moves to blow at her tea. Sam, too, cradles the warm mug in his hands, just another little comfort that made him feel safe, that made him feel _at home._

They settle in that silence, sipping at their tea once it becomes cool enough to drink. Sam looks around, taking in all the subtle ways his sister’s kitchen has changed since he last visited. There are more marks on the doorframe, from where his sister and her husband—also former Air Force, also done with the warrior life—measured Jody’s height, more pictures of family vacations framed on the walls, more magnets and postcards littering the fridge—some of which, Sam recognizes as having sent them himself.

“So, Gideon tells me you’re wanting to retire,” Sarah says, keeping her voice low. It’s not a secret that he is, and it never was, not really, but her hushed tone makes Sam feel even more serious about discussing it.

“Yeah,” Sam says, echoing her soft tone. “Yeah. I wanna—I miss my life.”

She nods. “I gotta say—I miss you _in_ my life, Sam. And so does Jody. You know how excited he was when I told him you were staying? He nearly cried.”

“The only thing is—” Sam starts. “I—I don’t know if I’m ready to live on my own again. I don’t know if I’m ready to _be_ on my own again.”

Sarah frowns. “What do you mean? You won’t be on your own. You’ve got me and Mom and Dad and Gideon. Especially Mom and Dad. I know you. If you move back to D.C., you’ll be back every weekend.”

“No, I mean,” Sam says, and he motions in the general direction of Jody’s excited chatter, of Bucky’s low, caring voice a low hum in the other room, of Steve’s energy—unspoken, but there.

“Oh. _Oh._ I didn’t realize—” Sarah starts.

He might be a grown man, and his sister might have seen him through every adult relationship he’s had since college, but even still, Sam can’t help but blush when he admits to her that _yes, he loves Steve and Bucky._ “Yeah. I—uh. Yeah.”

“Well, I mean—in that case,” Sarah starts, her voice soft. Fond. “They’ll still love you, Sam.”

Sam sighs, shaking his head. “Sarah, I—"

“Sammie, trust me. Just because you’re not in the field with them, doesn’t mean they’ll love you any less,” Sarah says, “You remember the love letters Toby sent me when he was deployed? He still sends me sappy stuff like that today, even now. You _know_ they’ll still love you.”

“It’s not that. I mean. It _is_ that. But it’s more than that. They don’t—it’s—I feel like,” Sam starts, unsure as to how to start. “We’re not—I mean, formally—"

“Wait wait wait hang on. Sam. Stop. Have—” Sarah starts, her eyes wide, seemingly, immediately, _knowing._ She looks so much like Jody in that moment that Sam feels fond, even knowing the shame that’s about to befall him. “ _Have you not told them?_ ”

Sam stares at his sister, feeling and looking guilty. Sarah sets down her mug with a heavy sigh, a sigh that Sam recognizes from many, many times he’s done something _so ridiculously bullheaded_ that she’s had to be his voice of reason. He’s gotten better at it, since they were kids, but that expression—it will never lose its potency. 

“You’re taking them to the night market, Sam. And you’re not allowed back in my home until you’ve _talked_ to them.”

Sam sighs. She’s right. He hates it, but his older sister, as always, is right.

“Fine,” he says, resigned. “But you’re driving us.” 

\---

The night market holds a fond place in Sam’s heart. It’s one of his and Riley’s first dates, back when they were somewhere between _just friends_ and _each other’s everything._ There’s something magical about it, eve in how quotidian it is: food stalls at night make Sam think of young love, of summer sweetness, of infinite possibilities and a form of stability that isn’t stifling.

It’s everything that Sam needs, yet another thing that Sam has been searching for in this journey to figure out what, exactly, he’s going to do, moving forward.

He takes out Gideon’s disposable camera, and, as Gideon suggested, he begins documenting the market, its people, and the energy that makes him feel _warm._ He takes a picture of the sound stage, of the crowds, of the ducks bobbing along the waterfront. As Bucky and Steve order overpriced gelato popsicles, Sam takes a picture of the rows and rows of stalls, lit up in the early evening glow. More than anything, Sam takes pictures of Steve and Bucky.

Steve, looking coy behind his newly-purchased straw hat, his gelato popsicle looking as pink as those plush, beautiful lips. Bucky, feeding a bowl full of takoyaki to two stray cats. Uncaptured in those shots are the small things, the things that make Sam want to tell the boys that he loves them; the things that make Sam hope that they’ll love him too.

Telling Steve and Bucky that he loves them, opening up a chance to learn the truth of them _loving_ him fills Sam with a terrible anxiety. He knows they’ll still care for him, even if they don’t love him. He knows they’ll still be friends. But the prospect of being rejected, so-suddenly after he determined that he was _in love with them,_ scares Sam. It almost scares Sam enough to keep him from telling Steve and Bucky how he feels.

But luckily, through some sort of intuition, or through some sort of aligning of fates, the time comes where Sam can’t keep that love to himself. Not a moment longer.

Steve and Bucky stop at a fruit stand, stocked with fresh ataulfo mangoes, oranges, watermelon, and other fruits fresh for summer. Sam is busy taking pictures of his boys, or the ripe, colorful fruit, that he doesn’t even notice Bucky purchasing something. In fact, once he starts taking pictures of the other shops, burning neon-bright against a dark California sky, Sam doesn’t notice Bucky at all, until he’s next to Sam, handing him something. 

“Hey,” Bucky says, handing Sam a cup. “Steve and I asked them to slice this for you. You haven’t eaten all day, and I know how you’ve been tired of eating all that greasy shit we’ve been having while on the road.” 

“I—” Sam starts, and it’s a small gesture, one that can easily be overlooked, even. But knowing that Bucky and Steve were thinking of him, knowing that they cared for him, seeing it, tangible, in the form of special, sweet, sliced-up mango, it helps everything from the past few days—from the past few months—click into place. It’s then, mango in hand, that Sam realizes that Steve and Bucky—two men who have changed his life, two men who he’s fallen in love with, two men who he was prepared to follow into combat forever, to die for, are _also_ the two men that he’s prepared to settle down for. It’s not that they didn’t love Sam already. They _do_ love him. They’ve been showing it, in myriad ways, this whole time: through dropping everything and travelling with him across the world to help him find himself, through meeting his family, through holding his hand across difficulties, through _getting him sliced mango_. Sam doesn’t have to worry about Steve and Bucky not loving him because he is not with them on the front lines of the fight against Hydra. Because Steve and Bucky _already_ love him.

He just needs to let them know, before he settles back into his civilian life, that he loves them back.

“I—” Sam starts, handing Bucky the cup of mango back. “Can I say something?”

“Of course,” Bucky says, tucking a strand of stray brown hair behind his ear with his free hand.

“I—I want to settle down. I want to stop fighting. I want to help people. I want to go back to D.C. and have a home,” Sam starts. He takes a deep breath, steadying himself. “But—I guess what I want to say is, I—that home wouldn’t be a home without you two.”

Bucky looks unsure, for a moment, his brows furrowed, if only for a moment, but that eases, melting into something serene, something as sweet as the mangoes that he bought Sam.

“Yeah? You mean that?” Bucky asks, less a question, and more a confirmation; more an acknowledgement of, _I love you, too._

“Yeah,” Sam says, “You. Steve. The both of you.”

Bucky, still looking like a goddamn angel, takes Steve—distracted, temporarily, by a little flock of ducks, resting by the shore—by the hand, pulling him in closer. “Hey. Sam made his decision.”

“Oh?” Steve says, his tone level. Bucky hums. “Well, that’s great.”

“I mean—that’s not it, though,” Sam says, taking one of Steve’s hands, and one of Bucky’s hands, in his own. “I want—I want you to know that I’m going to retire. I’ve decided that. Just now. But—I want you to know that—I. Uh. Home won’t be home without you two. So I—I’m not saying that you have to retire with me. But know that when I make a home, it’s going to be yours, too.”

He pauses to take a deep, steadying breath. No turning back now.

“Because I love you. The both of you. And—even though I’m going to shift gears back to where I was—my heart is at home with you two.” 

Steve smiles, leaning in close, and pecking Sam on the lips, gentle, delicate, but no less _loving,_ all the same.

“I’m proud of you,” Steve says, lacing his fingers with Sam’s. Bucky, too, threads their fingers together, rubbing his thumb, absentmindedly, along one of Sam’s knuckles. It’s a beautiful gesture. It’s just another one of those little ways that Sam knows he is _loved._

They don’t say anything as they move, fingers interlaced with one another, to watch the shore before them. But even without anything more said, even without anything else spoken, it’s in that moment that Sam, standing there at a nighttime farmer’s market, with Steve and Bucky, knows that he made the right call. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> look at that lovely art!! gah. cinni is so good. so so good. i hope that my words were able to capture the feeling that cinni's art evokes. there were so many good good art pieces for the reverse big bang, but i'm so glad (and humbled) to have gotten cinni's piece. wow. please retweet this art, [the fuller, less-compressed version of which is on cinni's twitter](https://twitter.com/itscinni/status/1146922422312083457). it deserves so, so much love. 
> 
> anyway, some notes for our pentultimate chapter: 
> 
> \- gideon and sarah wilson are the canon names for sam's siblings in the 616!verse, but they're his younger siblings in the comics. because "snap" wilson trash. i made them his older siblings in this because i like the idea of sam wilson being the youngest of his siblings, and all of them excelling in their respective fields.  
> \- similarly, jody is the canon name for sam's nephew, although again, because of the "snap" wilson bullshit storyline, i changed him around. jody's full name is jody toby casper in the comics (when he appeared), so i decided to give his dad (sarah's unnamed husband, or, rather, unnamed in the comics) jody's canon middle name.  
> \- the noodle place in the chicago section of this chapter is based off a place that [anji](https://archiveofourown.org/users/halfmoonsevenstars) took me to when i was in washigton, d.c. last. there are probably real-life hand-pulled noodle places in chicago that this could probably be, but i'm always gonna think of hand-pulled noodle places as the cozy little place in d.c.'s chinatown.  
> \- also, related, i know that the san diego night market takes place inland, and nowhere near the shoreline, so imagine if there were an actual night market by the shoreline. i really just wanted to write about ducks. and mangoes. reality can take some liberties for ducks and mangoes, honestly.
> 
> up next: home(coming).


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> home(coming).

Sam Wilson is anxious. But, this time, in the best of ways.

He’s back in his job, his real job. Not the duty he took when Steve and Natasha showed up seeking shelter a lifetime ago.

No, Sam Wilson is at his job as a therapist with the VA, in an office not unlike his old one, preparing for his first group session in— _well. A long, long time._

Just as Sam is about to go home— _early enough to see the sun set, even!_ —the phone on his desk rings that familiar, friendly tone.

“Hello?”

“Hey,” a familiar voice on the other end of the line says. It’s caramel-rich and sweet as a mango. Sam smiles to himself, shifting to sit on his desk. _Samuel,_ his mother would say. Against his better upbringing, Sam continues sitting on the smooth wood of his office desk. “Are you taking walk-ins, Doctor Wilson?”

“Not a doctor, Barnes,” Sam jokes back, “And even if I was, I don’t think we take your insurance here.”

The soft, gentle huff that Bucky lets off on the other line—halfway between a laugh and a sigh—makes Sam _melt._ “Well. That won’t do. Maybe you’ll make an exception. You know, my boyfriend, he’s Captain America.”

“No exceptions,” Sam parries back, his heart beating erratic in his chest. 

“Well then,” Bucky murmurs, “How about he and I pay you some other way?”

Sam pauses, the weight of their proposal hanging heavy across the line. “I’m listening.”

“Dinner. At yours.”

“Deal.”

“Good, then,” Bucky says, “Because we’re already here.”

Sam nearly falls off his damn desk. _The little shits._

\---

By the time Sam arrives home, Steve and Bucky already have dinner prepared and set out for him. It’s not a fancy meal, by any means—shrimp and mango stir-fry, rice, and a couple of cold beers—but it’s a homemade meal, from the two men that Sam loves most in the world, so really, it’s _perfect._ It takes them a while to finish the meal—longer than it usually does, anyway—just because of how long they spend catching up. Not that anyone could blame them. After all, as much as they manage to talk to each other, as much as they communicate with one another, even with the distance it’s not often that Sam’s two supersoldier boyfriends return from their overseas misadventures.

Eventually, the three of them manage to finish their meals, and it isn’t long after they finish up that they fall into a comfortable lull. It’s a pause, a moment to breathe between catching up and _catching up._ Sam notices Steve, staring at him, watching him, his blue eyes burning with intent. He’s grown his beard out, too, which makes the expression all the more wolfish, and all the more tempting. Bucky, too, watches him with that same intense gaze, and Sam, too, knows he’s been shooting them looks. It has, after all, been a _long time._

“Hey,” Sam murmurs, slyly popping open the third button on his work shirt. Steve grins, blushing at the tips of his ears, and Sam does not break eye contact. Not for a minute. “You two gonna keep staring at me from across the table, or are we gonna do this?”

“I dunno,” Bucky murmurs, leaning close—dangerously close—to Sam. “I wanna see how much you want it first.” 

“This proof enough?” Sam asks, and he pulls Bucky into a kiss, hot and heavy and messy. Steve, to their side, lets out a noise that can only be described as a low purr—and Bucky, all muscle and metal underneath Sam’s fingers, moves, groping at Sam in a way that feels almost _territorial._

“Let’s go,” Bucky murmurs, his breath hot against Sam’s skin. 

\---

They stumble into Sam’s bedroom, a mess of sweaty bodies and _need._ Somehow, Sam manages to slip out of his shirt while being lavished by his boyfriends, their mouths and hands hot all over him. He barely has time to breathe by the time he’s stumbling backwards, falling onto his bed, kissing Bucky, mussing up those long, caramel-brown curls. As they continue to kiss, passionately, fully, Steve is getting Sam’s pants off, groping Sam’s hardening cock through his dress pants.

“ _Fuck,_ ” Sam manages, when he breaks the kiss with Bucky to breathe. He registers Bucky looking at him, hungrily, before all he can think of is Steve’s delicate, gentle hands on his cock—now free, after Steve popped Sam’s fly. Gently, teasingly, he kisses the tip of Sam’s cock, sending sparks throughout Sam’s whole body and his hips bucking already.

Bucky, meanwhile, has shifted, moving behind Sam, all but straddling Sam in his lap. His left hand is cool against Sam’s hole, not even lubed up, not yet, but teasing Sam open, playing with him, working in the very same way that Steve is working on his cock. 

“There’s—” Sam starts, his words beginning to fail him, what, with how overstimulated he is. “In the side-table—there’s lube there.”

“Thanks, sugar,” Bucky murmurs, his voice a low rumble in his chest. He shifts, if only slightly, running his free hand along Sam’s chest, playing with his pert nipples, all the while Steve continues to mouth at Sam’s dick, not taking it, not yet.

It’s almost too much when Bucky, fingers now wet with slick, works a finger inside of Sam, slow and steady and methodical, knowing _just_ the right spot to drag his finger along, just the right spot to drive Sam _wild._

“ _Fuck,_ ” Sam breathes, barely having time to string together words, once Steve licks a long stripe down Sam’s cock. “ _Oh—oh, fuck—”_

“You like that?” Steve murmurs, between Sam’s thighs, lashes long and lips plush and oh, so pink. “You want me to suck you off while you ride Bucky’s cock?”

Sam likes it. He likes it so, so much. He nods, a little shaky, letting out an undignified little noise when Bucky continues fingering his hole, ever-slowly, ever-edgingly.

“You gotta use your words, sweetheart,” Barnes says, planting a kiss on the crook of Sam’s neck. “Gotta tell us what you want.”

It’s a herculean task, putting together those words, but he manages. Sam, with what feels like all the breath he has left, manages. “Both of you— _I need you. Please._ ”

And that, much to Sam’s relief, is enough. Bucky hums, and Steve nods, and, before Sam can really ready himself, Steve takes him, wrapping those pretty pink lips around Sam’s cock like it’s what he was _made_ for. Bucky, too, moves, pulling his fingers out of Sam, leaving an absence that is immediately filled by Steve’s tongue, running down the side of his cock. Sam can hear Bucky lubing up his big cock, and he twitches, thighs trembling in anticipation.

“Ready for this?” Bucky asks, and Sam makes an affirmative noise, nothing like a _yes,_ nothing even close to words, but it’s enough. Sam shifts, leaving Steve to pull off his cock with a slick _pop._ His hair, now long, falls into his face, and Sam just wants to pull it. He threads his fingers through Steve’s hair, as he sinks downk, letting out a short, sharp gasp as he bottoms out, losing himself in the way he feels, stretched taught around Bucky’s huge cock.

“ _Fuck,_ ” Sam murmurs, and Bucky lets out a low noise, in turn. As he builds up a rhythm, Steve moves with Sam, desperately licking at Sam’s cock in time with the roll of Sam’s hips. Eventually, he manages to match Sam, and he takes Sam in his mouth, once more, taking Sam down deeper than he had before.

It’s so much, having Steve and Bucky there, in the flesh, completely undoing Sam in whatever ways they can. Riding Bucky’s cock, having Steve on his dick—it makes him feel fully-alive. It’s better than parachuting. It’s better than flying, even. It’s a complete feeling of ecstasy, of weightlessness, of _being._ With a sharp gasp, Sam manages to hit _just_ the right spot, and he moves, desperate, tugging, hard, on Steve’s hair as he does. It doesn’t take long, with Steve moaning around his dick, and Bucky growling behind him. He moves, rolling his hips against Steve, against Bucky, against _his boys_ just one more time, and he’s gone, shooting off his load, hot and sticky, in Steve’s mouth. Feeling completely weightless, Sam slumps back against Bucky, moaning as he rides the aftershocks of his orgasm, moaning, even still, moments later, when Bucky comes, his own load totally filling Sam up.

“Fuck,” Bucky manages, his voice still low, throaty, almost-primal.

“ _Fuck,_ ” Steve echoes after swallowing Sam’s load, voice hoarse and throat, clearly well-fucked.

The three of them—still sticky, still stinking of sex—sprawl over the length of Sam’s bed, bathing in that shared post-orgasmic haze. Steve manages to kiss Sam on the collarbone before slumping down against a pillow, and Sam, feeling warm and fulfilled—like this, right here, is where he needs to be—just smiles, wide.

“What is it?” Steve asks, his beard scratchy against the delicate skin of Sam’s neck.

“It’s just—” Sam starts. His bed is comfortable, his heart is full, and Steve and Bucky—his _boys_ —look beautiful in the early-evening light. “It’s good to be home.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \--and they lived happily ever after.
> 
> thank you to everyone who read this and supported this in this process, including, and especially, [cinni](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cinni) for both the gorgeous art and the eternal, incredible, heart-filled patience and friendship. this fic has been plotted and in-progress since before endgame, and with sam!cap, i almost debated scrapping this, but i do think that this is another character study of sam that, while not invalidating the sam!cap canon, is another interpretation of who he is, as a character, while respecting him as a character. but anyway. seriously, thanks. there were a lot of bumps in this road, a lot of things that didn't go like we'd planned, but we made it. and i'm happy we did. 
> 
> also thanks again to [em](https://archiveofourown.org/users/goodmanperfectsoldier), who not only is always a great beta reader, but is always-willing to help me out when it comes to fic alcohol and food. i know absolutely nothing, and though it's a throwaway line in this chapter, i really wanted to make it right. 
> 
> and thanks to the mods of the reverse big bang for making it a great event, even (again), with all my life challenges throwing wrenches in this process. seriously. thanks for being people instead of rules-hawks. it means a lot. 
> 
> i'll leave you with two songs to end this fic: first, [ben gibbard's "you remind me of home"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=87lk_Ruv7as) which makes my heart feel so, so warm, even as it makes my heart ache. and second, [sufjan stevens' "chicago,"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c_-cUdmdWgU) which was initially going to be the chapter title for chapter three. 
> 
> please follow [cinni](https://twitter.com/itscinni) or [myself](https://twitter.com/aka_spacedog) on twitter, and again: thanks <3


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